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Bubbly Girl

Colbie Caillat seems more like your sister than a singing sensation. The sunny, down-to-earth demeanor reflected in her music shines through the phone line across the Atlantic.
For Caillat, she says hasn’t really experienced the “celebrity” aspect of musicianship, and fame is still relatively new to her.
“I’m not used to it, for the most part.” And, like any true artist, she is dedicated to her craft and doesn’t concern herself with the spotlight. “I’m always touring.”

There's something different about hosting a CD release party in a cathedral. Free of the usual distractions and the din of a smoky bar, Holley’s sweet lullabies are met with a quiet reverence only found in a gothic-like building a century old.

With her clear, sophisticated voice -- not to mention her undying allegiance to New York City -- Jaymay is Feist-ish, if Feist were a bit less Jane Birkin and a little more Diane Keaton circa Annie Hall.

Backed by his band the Wayward Apostles, Jason Eady's new album, Wild-Eyed Serenade, wanders from honky-tonk to swamp soul and alt-country ramble with a crackle and an assurance you’d expect from far more experienced hands.

More by Alice Wynn

When a woman was asked to leave a store, she became angry and started throwing beer bottles on the floor. She then stood in the corner screaming that “Jesus got her pregnant and she wanted [it] out of her so she could it eat it.”

More by Metro Spirit

J.B. Beverley certainly lacks that studio cliche. Sure, some of his songs involve a broken heart. Those songs aren't about the woman that broke his heart, though. They are about the experience he gained through each of those stepping stones on his journey.

By the light of the moon…I’m comin’ home.
Howlin’ all the way…I’m comin’ home. - So begins Red of Tooth and Claw, the latest neo-noir/Peckinpah-soaked/ baroque spaghetti western mini-epic from Indiana’s Murder by Death. Though I feel compelled to admit that I swiped this thing from my editor’s desk primarily due to my all-too-obvious affection for the 1976 murder mystery farce (starring Peter Sellers and Maggie Smith, among others) of the same name, I was nearly as enthused regarding the subtle buzz that the group has been generating since early in the decade as a surprisingly literary alt-country goth outfit. Seriously… think REALLY-early-Bad Seeds Nick Cave in a head-hanging contest with the entirety of the Cure in a frontier-boom saloon. And Tom Waits slumps in the corner, drunkenly lighting a cigar with his own kerosene-soaked pinkie.